


Summer Reading Program

by mirawonderfulstar



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale being Dumb, Books, Crack, Crowley being Unhelpful, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 20:10:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13508901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirawonderfulstar/pseuds/mirawonderfulstar
Summary: How to get yourself banned from a library, featuring a smug shape-shifting demon and an increasingly overwrought angel.





	Summer Reading Program

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by this post: http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/170234162520/not-a-space-alien-imagine-aziraphale

“I’m telling you, angel, this is a terrible idea.” Crowley said lazily. He took another sip of his drink, which was tall and contained a lot of ice. Aziraphale refrained from rolling his eyes with great difficulty.

“It’s a library position, it can’t be as bad as all that.” He took a bite of the muffin he was eating and shot another disdainful look at Crowley’s drink. It might be an unusually hot and sunny morning but breakfast was breakfast and whatever was in Crowley’s glass certainly was _not_ breakfast. “And besides, Heaven has been after me to fulfill my monthly quota.”

Crowley waved a hand. “And Hell’s been after me to fulfill mine but there are better ways to do it than being stuck in a room with a group of toddlers.”

“They’re not _toddlers_ , they’re six to ten year olds.” Aziraphale snapped. “That’s what the librarian told me when I enquired, anyway.”

Crowley snorted. Aziraphale steepled his hands on the table and glared over them at Crowley, who nudged the umbrella over their table very slightly to the left so that Aziraphale was sitting in the shade. “There now, will you stop squinting at me like that? I’m only telling you what we both know is true.”

“I believe I know what I can and cannot do, my dear.” Aziraphale said loftily, turning away to look at the people passing by on the street below the balcony of the café. Crowley made another disbelieving noise.

“What time do they expect you, anyway?”

“Around eleven, and I have to stop by the bookshop first so I’d better get a move on.” Aziraphale stood up and immediately ducked back down to get the sun out of his eyes.

“Sssee you around.” Crowley hissed with a wide grin that Aziraphale did not at all like. Aziraphale waved goodbye as he retreated down the stairs of the café and up the street.

Truth be told, Aziraphale had absolutely no idea what book he ought to take to read. He’d pulled out a stack of possibilities the night before but hadn’t been able to narrow it down, and he certainly wasn’t going to ask for Crowley’s help when Crowley was so determined to be unhelpful. So it was with a vague sense of panic that he bundled the original manuscript of “A Modest Proposal” into his bag with somewhat less care than he might ordinarily have done, glancing around at the other options still spread out on the counter beside the mostly unused till.

Swift was an appropriate choice, he reasoned as he made his way to the library. It was… topical. The recent political climate with Ireland meant that the old satire was back in vogue and it would be good to teach today’s youth about such things. Yes, Aziraphale thought as he entered the building and was greeted by the beaming old lady behind the front desk, this would be just fine.

 

It is perhaps necessary at this time to enumerate the events that caused Aziraphale to obtain this position. Lacie Phillips, the young woman who had been running the summer reading program at the Islington Central Library had mysteriously vanished one day in late June, leaving only an empty flat and a missed connections advertisement behind her. The head librarian, a very nice old lady who was one of Aziraphale’s only valued customers, had complained about the trouble she’d been having finding a replacement one day while he wrapped up a stack of nineteenth century first editions for her. She’d looked him up and down, in his plaid button-down rolled up to his elbows and his vest and his glasses, and decided he looked like exactly the kind of person for the job. Aziraphale had been taken aback at first but had warmed up to the idea when she assured him it would be simple, just some reading to a group of children and then helping them select books to take home. She would even provide him with some biscuits, she’d added with a glance at Aziraphale’s middle that he couldn’t help but take as a slight insult.

Aziraphale had weighed the idea of doing this very simple yet very selfless and generous task against the rest of the month’s good deeds he’d have to do to meet Heaven’s outreach requirements and agreed instantly. The old lady, whose name was Edith Milton, had shaken his hand and all but skipped out of his shop, her stack of Austen in the bag on her arm. Aziraphale had been delighted to have stumbled across a way to get Heaven off his back for a couple of weeks, and had set about pulling out books from his collection that might be appropriate and entertaining for children in this day and age. After amassing a pile of books nearly a meter tall he’d conceded that he might need some help, and called Crowley, who had laughed for an uninterrupted two minutes into the phone before telling Aziraphale to meet him for breakfast at one of their favorite cafés in the morning. He’d hung up on Crowley without another word.

Which brings us up to the here and now, where Aziraphale is walking into the large, well lit children’s section of the Islington Central Library with his chosen book in a bag slung over his shoulder and being introduced by Edith Milton as “my good friend Mr Fell” to a group of six to ten year olds all seated cross legged on a carpet.

Aziraphale smiled around at the room full of children. None of them smiled back, and Aziraphale’s enthusiasm slipped slightly. He glanced back at Mrs Milton, who gave him a reassuring nod as she left the room. Aziraphale felt sweat begin to pool on the back of his neck. He sat down in the wooden rocking chair in front of the rug and placed his bag gently on his lap.

“Well! I’ve heard from the librarian that my predecessor vanished, and how fortunate for me that she did or I wouldn’t get to be here today!” Aziraphale said. His voice was much louder than usual. None of the children said anything, although one or two of them smirked. “Let’s just get started reading, shall we? After all, reading is what this little venture is all about.” He cleared his throat and pulled the manuscript from his bag.

“What’s that?” A small girl in the second row yelled.

“This, my dear, is the original manuscript of ‘A Modest Proposal’, by Jonathan Swift.” Aziraphale held the book up slightly to show them. The girl squinted at him.

“Why’s it all brown and wrinkly like that? Don’t you take care of your books?”

Aziraphale, who took _extremely good_ care of his books, was very affronted. “Of course I do. This is over two hundred years old, young lady. I daresay _you_ will look a sight in two hundred years.”

There was a small giggle from somewhere in the crowd and a boy sitting beside the girl, who was several years older and had the same curly hair and curiously squashy nose as her, yelled, “You’ll be _dead_ in two hunded years, Ada!”

The girl’s lip trembled and she started to cry. Aziraphale stared from her to the boy in shock, then set his book down on the rocking chair and moved forward to offer her a handkerchief which he’d just miracled into his pocket.

She sniffed heartily and blew her nose, and Aziraphale shook his head at her offer to give the handkerchief back. He returned to his chair.

“Now, children, if there are no more interruptions, I-“

“Aren’t you going to tell him off?” Another girl demanded. Aziraphale blinked at her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Tommy’s always being mean to his sister. _Ms Lacie_ used to tell him off for it.” The girl crossed her arms and glared, rather impressively for someone her size, Aziraphale thought.

“Yes, well…” he stammered. He cleared his throat and opened the book on his lap. “Let’s return to the topic at hand, hmm? This is a very influential work of satire by Jonathan Swift, although if you ask me, I believe a lot of modern satire has rather lost the plot. When a work of satire becomes indistinguishable from that which it seeks to ridicule, is it even effective?”

Aziraphale paused to let these words sink in and to look around the room. Every child was staring at him with glazed eyes and a confused expression. He shrugged.

“This is a satire on the corruption of the upper class during the 1730s. During this time the majority of the Irish were poor tenant farmers and the landlords proposed increasingly harsh economic policies to the problems of poverty. Swift’s solution, meant to draw attention to the injustice and immorality of many of these policies, was to simply sell children for consumption by the rich.”

Someone in the group let out a small squeak. “You mean he wanted people to…”

“To _eat_ them, yes.” Aziraphale said with satisfaction. It was very gratifying to see that somebody was following along.

That is, until the entire room burst into noisy tears. Aziraphale gaped. What on earth was he meant to do now? Aziraphale didn’t know what to do with someone crying at the best of times, but he _certainly_ didn’t know what to do with thirty children all crying at once.

Thankfully, Mrs Milton came running back into the room. “Mr Fell, what is going on here?” She chastised him, her eyes falling on the manuscript. She looked horrified, and leaned in to speak in an undertone. “Mr Fell, _surely_ you didn’t think this was appropriate material for the summer reading program.”

Aziraphale bristled. “Jonathan Swift is a highly respected-“

“They’re eight!” Mrs Milton hissed in his ear. “You must have realized that reading a group of eight year olds a book about child cannibalism would upset them!”

Ah. When it was put that way, Aziraphale could see that he’d made a mistake. He put “A Modest Proposal” back into his bag and hastened to help Mrs Milton, who was doing her best to soothe the room. As it was he mostly stood back and watched as she consoled them.

“Now, Mr Fell, why don’t you ask the kiddies what they’d rather you read, hmm?” She said with a tight smile, and swept out of the room again before Aziraphale could escape. The girl who’d shouted at him to scold Tommy ran forward and deposited a small colorful book on his lap.

“’The BFG’?” Aziraphale read the cover skeptically.

“Ms Lacie was reading it to us. We’re on page 89.” She said helpfully, sitting back down.

“I see.” Aziraphale flipped through the book. He sniffed. “Well, I certainly don’t see what could be educational or influential about this, but if you insist…” And he began to read.

“You have to do the voices.” Said the same girl insistently. “Ms Lacie _always_ did the voices.”

Aziraphale sighed. “May I ask what your name is, my dear?” he snapped.

“Natalie.”

“Well, Natalie,” Aziraphale began, fully intending to tell her to shut up, but then he saw a flicker of movement near the back of the group. He glanced over to see a small boy with dark hair smirking at him, his yellow eyes widened in amusement. Aziraphale’s own eyes narrowed as he looked at the boy, who was most certainly his own Crowley. The boy winked and pushed his sunglasses back up his smaller-than-usual face.

Aziraphale groaned internally. Regardless of what happened next he would probably never hear the end of this after his behavior at the café that morning. The horrible old snake.

Aziraphale forced a smile back onto his face and said as sweetly as he could, “Well, Natalie, I’m afraid I don’t, ah, do that sort of thing.”

“Really, angel.” Came an amused voice from the back of the group, and Aziraphale glared at Crowley so hard he was lucky he didn’t set something on fire. “Do the voices.”

Aziraphale, feeling completely at the end of his tether by this point, settled back into the chair and began to read, modulating his speech as he went.

It wasn’t actually that bad, once he got into it. True, the prose was simplistic, but that was what one got when one read a children’s book, Aziraphale supposed. The story itself and the characters were entertaining enough. He was having fun pulling voices from his memory and giving them to fictional characters, for Aziraphale, as an angel, was rather better equipped to give each person a distinct and recognizable voice than your average librarian or school teacher. He’d just decided that a newly introduced character would do well with the voice of Beelzebub when he heard Crowley snort from the back of the room and lowered the book to glare at him again.

“I’ll be sure to tell the lord of the flies that you think he’d make a good evil giant the next time I go Down Below.” Crowley sniggered behind his hands. Aziraphale had had enough. He set the book aside and snapped his fingers, and suddenly the whole room was full of children screaming at the snake which had just appeared in their midst. Crowley wriggled angrily on the floor.

Mrs Milton came back into the room and began shouting at Aziraphale, but he wasn’t listening. He was gathering his bag up and slinging it over his shoulder, ignoring the continued yells of the room as Crowley rapidly grew back to his normal size and shape. Aziraphale strode forward, grabbed his hand, and made a hasty exit from the library, followed by a positively irate Mrs Milton. She brandished a broom at him as they went.

“Don’t you ever come back in here, Fell, you hear me? I don’t expect you’ll be seeing me around your shop again, either!” She shrieked. Crowley yelped as a poorly aimed swing of the broom connected with his shoulder rather than with Aziraphale.

“No, I don’t expect I will.” Aziraphale snapped, turning back in the doorway for just a moment. “Good _day_ , Mrs Milton.” And he set off down the street at a run, tugging a cackling Crowley behind him.

Half a dozen blocks away from the library, out of breath and sweating in the midday sun, the pair stopped. Aziraphale bent over, hands on his knees, to take some deep breaths. Crowley’s mirth had trailed off into the occasional chuckle a block ago but now returned in full force.

“You should have seen your face.” Crowley laughed, a hand on his side where he had a stitch from running.

“Oh, be _quiet_ , you might have helped rather than made everything worse.”

Crowley patted him on the shoulder as Aziraphale straightened back up. “If you’d wanted help all you had to do was ask.”

“I did, last night, remember?”

Crowley shrugged. “You were so stubborn this morning, I couldn’t resist.” He hailed them a cab.

“Couldn’t resist getting me kicked out of a library, you mean?” Aziraphale grumbled as he sat down heavily in the back seat and let Crowley slide in beside him.

“Couldn’t resist going along to watch you make a fool of yourself.” He chuckled. Aziraphale didn’t say anything. His face felt hot from the running and from humiliation that was now spreading through him now the panic had worn off. The view out the window of the cab taking them back to Soho was very interesting all of a sudden.

Crowley paid the driver and followed Aziraphale into the bookshop, glancing around at the books still spread out on the counter. He did a double take.

“Aziraphale.” His tone was one of exasperation.

“What?”

Crowley held up one of the other old books Aziraphale had pulled out the night before. “Treasure Island? Why didn’t you take _this_ in? Kids love pirates and treasure and things like that.”

Aziraphale began returning the books to their proper shelves. “I just thought,” he began, very irritated,  “Swift was appropriate given everything that’s going on in the political climate right now. And the book they had me read was _also_ about eating children, so I don’t see what all the fuss was about, really. I made a brief error in judgement, that’s all.”

“ _Aziraphale_.”

Aziraphale turned to glare at Crowley, who was watching him with such a wide grin on his face Aziraphale considered asking if it was hurting him. But his tone was one of fondness, and he was stepping forward and taking the book Aziraphale was holding ( _A Critique Of Pure Reason_ , not a first edition but a very valuable copy nonetheless) out of his hands. He put the book on a shelf at random and Aziraphale’s hands on Crowley’s waist. “You’re ridiculous sometimes, you know?”

Aziraphale shrugged, still embarrassed and a little disgruntled. “You don’t seem to mind very much or you’d have helped me avoid this whole fiasco.”

“You’re right, I don’t mind.” Crowley murmured, kissing Aziraphale’s nose before draping his arms over his shoulders and resting his hands on the back of his neck. 

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno when this is supposed to take place, uhhh somewhere during the eleven years Aziraphale and Crowley are keeping an eye on Warlock? I don't know. I definitely think this is before the apocalypse because I feel like the events of this story were probably a contributing factor to Crowley's reticence to let Aziraphale go to the birthday party as a magician.


End file.
